hemisphere where life was all a somnolent sort of joy and bodily love.

She was roused at last by a song which came floating across the fields.
The air she knew, and the voice she knew. The chanson was, "Le Voleur de
grand Chemin!" The voice was her husband's.

She knew the words, too; and even before she could hear them, they were
fitting into the air:

"Qui va la! There's some one in the orchard,
There's a robber in the apple-trees;
Qui va la! He is creeping through the doorway.
Ah, allez-vous-en! Va-t'-en!"

She hurriedly put away the cordial and the seed-cakes. She picked up the
bottle. It was empty. Ferrol had drunk near half a pint of the liqueur!
She must get another bottle of it somehow. It would never do for Magon
to know that the precious anniversary cordial was all gone--in this way.

She hurried towards the other room. The voice of the farrier-farmer was
more distinct now. She could hear clearly the words of the song. She
looked out. The square-shouldered, blue-shirted Magon was skirting the
turnip field, making a short cut home. His straw hat was pushed back on
his head, his scythe was over his shoulder. He had cut the last swathe
in the field--now for Sophie. He was not handsome, and she had known
that always; but he seemed rough and coarse to-day. She did not notice
how well he fitted in with everything about him; and he was so healthy
that even three glasses of that cordial would have sent him reeling to
bed.